“Cameron?” Kacey asked. “Would that be the same Cameron over there chatting up Tigress Kim?”
Allyson turned, looking for Cameron in the direction Kacey had indicated. Dressed as Bonnie Parker, Cameron stood out in the crowd, but Kim could have come with her own spotlight and it wouldn’t have made her more prominent. With her black leather bustier flaunting impressive cleavage and a whole lot of exposed, orange-painted, black-striped skin, Kim popped wherever she stood. All eyes seemed to follow her no matter where she went. Compared to her, even the cheerleading squad blended into the background.
At that moment, she stood right next to Cameron, easily recognizable even though his back was to Allyson. She’d been smiling through the dance number and small talk, but as soon as she saw Cameron beside Kim, her smile wilted, overwhelmed by a sudden pang of jealousy.
Wearing the slanted beret and Vicky’s pencil skirt, Cameron couldn’t be accused of sneaking around. He had to have known Allyson would notice the company he kept. Fighting off a panicked sense of embarrassment, she tried to reason that their proximity to each other was totally innocent. Maybe they had a class together and were poking fun at their oddball teacher. Before she could halfway convince herself of such a mitigating scenario, Kim took Cameron’s hand, leaned close to him and kissed his neck.
Jaw hanging as she stood motionless on the dance floor, hardly aware of her friends behind her, Allyson stared as if paralyzed by Cameron’s betrayal. At that moment, she wanted to run out of the gymnasium and straight home. She always tried to live in the moment, but in that moment she thought she might die of embarrassment. She’d grown gradually more comfortable in her skin all evening, but now she felt like an immature fool.
Cameron and Kim turned around. Unlike Allyson, Cameron was smiling. Until he noticed Allyson staring at the two of them. Then he pulled away from Kim and called, “Allyson. Come here!”
Allyson shook her head, a definitive “no.”
Cameron nodded.
Again, Allyson shook her head.
Turning sideways for a moment, he pulled the metal flask from his pocket and took a quick sip before hiding it again. He whispered something to Kim, whereupon Allyson’s imagination ran wild, wondering what he’d said to her. Unflattering possibilities raced through her mind. “Wait here while I ditch Miss Buzzkill.” “Let’s continue this later.” “Meet you behind the fieldhouse.” And so on…
With Cameron crossing the dance floor toward her, Allyson shook off the belittling voice in her head. When he stood close enough that she wouldn’t have to shout and further embarrass herself, she said, “What are you doing? What was that?”
Eyes glazed, he was clearly buzzed. And for some reason, that made her more incensed.
“I just need a kiss from you,” he said.
“Looks like you just got one from Kim,” Allyson said bitterly.
From behind her, with a rustling of pompoms, zombie cheerleader Barb said, “She shoots, she scores.”
Allyson glanced back over her shoulder. “Please,” she said. “This is private.”
“No worries,” Robin said, palms raised as she backed away.
“Be strong,” Kacey said, patting Allyson’s upper arm.
Allyson waited a moment as her friends wandered out of hearing range, then turned back to Cameron, seething.
“That was nothing,” Cameron said, smiling in a lame attempt to defuse her anger. “It was nothing.” He glanced around. “Can we not do this in the middle of the dance floor?”
Allyson looked around, realizing that more than a few of the nearby dancers had started to dance less and stare more. Allyson nodded curtly and followed him toward the refreshment area. Oscar and his big pickle were no longer in the area to attract more unwanted attention.
“You were saying?” Allyson asked, hands on her hips.
“That it—that kiss—was nothing,” he repeated. “Seriously.”
“Really?”
From the frown on his face, she could tell the nonchalant attitude had reached its limit with Cameron. She began to realize it wasn’t in his nature to defend his behavior. Maybe because of his unusual family situation or because of the way he was raised. Whatever it was, he wasn’t comfortable when forced to meet the expectations of others.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Every time I turn around you’re buried in your phone. Looking at it, texting with people, talking with people. It sucks. And I didn’t do anything with Kim. She came up to me. Don’t cry about it.”
“Blame me,” Allyson said. “Blame Kim. Everyone but Cameron.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re drunk,” she said angrily. “Oscar got you fucked up.”
“Exactly,” Cameron said, smiling. “See? Not my fault.”
“You’ve been drinking from that flask all night,” she said. “You. Not Oscar.”
Cameron arched his eyebrows. “Who do you think gives me free refills?”
“Not funny.”
“Come ’ere,” he said, voice slurring as he smiled in a mushed-mouth sort of way that irritated her. “Come on. Stop.”
She tried to back away, but he grabbed her arm to pull her close to him.
“Don’t,” Allyson warned.
Her phone vibrated. Distracted, she removed it from her pocket to check the screen display: Mom.
Cameron practically rolled his eyes in disgust. “See!” he bellowed. “This piece of shit.”
He snatched the phone out of her hand before she could answer the call—before she could even decide if she wanted to answer the call—and tossed it toward the serving table, right into the massive plastic bowl filled with nacho cheese.
Allyson thought she might burst a blood vessel in her head as she glared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck?”
* * *
Dave ran up the stairs with the kitchen knife in his hand.
Where the hell is Vicky?
He should have seen her by now. As a responsible babysitter she should have been in pursuit of the wild-eyed child the Morriseys had left in her care. And yet he hadn’t heard a peep from her.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he called out, “Vicky?”
He cocked his head, belatedly alert. Something was off… Slowly, he walked toward the open bedroom door at the end of the hall.
“Vicky, you really need to calm that kid down before he hurts himself,” Dave said. “He ran right out the back door.” Only a few feet from the doorway. “Like a bat out of hell.”
Nothing.
“Really think that kid needs therapy,” Dave added, his voice sounding gradually more nervous to his own ears. “Vicky?”
What if the kid’s right?
Glancing down, Dave stared at the hardwood floor right outside the bedroom, at a thin streak of red, like smeared paint—
Blood!
To his left—a moment’s distraction—he noticed more blood smeared on the bottom of a couple balusters, as if hands had gripped—before—
The screaming he thought he’d heard from the garage—Julian’s panic—
“Vicky! What’s—?”
As his gaze flicked toward the dark doorway, a shape rushed into the light—
Oh, fuck!
A powerful hand clamped around his throat, lifting him off his feet. Dave had only a moment to glimpse the pale, dead face of his attacker, the shock of hair. Only as he tried to swing his knife down toward that face did he see it for what it was—a mask. But the blow was obstructed by the man’s arm as he swung Dave around to slam him into the wall. The jarring impact left Dave’s arm numb, and the knife fell from his senseless fingers.
The man released him while trying to stab Dave with a knife of his own and, had Dave’s legs not crumpled beneath him, the bloodstained knife might have impaled his chest. Instead, the point of the blade scarred the wallpaper, digging a furrow in the drywall underneath. Dave scrambled across the floor, trying to scoop up his own weapon. His numb hand collided with the handle and sent it s
pinning toward the top of the stairs.
The knife stopped beneath the large wall clock.
When Dave tried to stand, a boot-clad foot shoved him in the small of the back and he fell face first again. Momentum carried him closer to his knife, but his attacker closed the distance between them. Diving, Dave grabbed the knife and climbed to his feet, the staircase at his back. When his attacker came close enough, Dave swung the blade again, another overhand blow. Instantly, he realized his mistake. The man in the deathly white mask snagged Dave’s wrist in his left hand and shoved him.
Unbalanced, Dave fell backward, down the steps, colliding with the railing and the wall, trying to hold onto the knife after each impact, yet worried the blade would end up six inches deep in his abdomen before he hit bottom. At some point, his head struck the wall with enough force to daze him. For a second everything went dark…
When he regained his senses, he found himself on his back, the knife no longer in his possession. Groggy, he tried to rise and felt a spike of pain shoot up from the base of his neck to the center of his skull, his vision blurred. The figure in dark coveralls with the white smear of a face descended the stairs in stereo: two of them, side by side, eerily calm, almost unhurried, as if they knew Dave wouldn’t escape.
By squinting, Dave cured his double vision, but his head pounded more. One murderous attacker was still one too many. On elbows and heels, he pushed himself away from the base of the stairs, unable to take his eyes off the dark shape looming closer with each passing second.
The man had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Dave’s palm brushed the handle of his knife and he gasped with relief, fingers closing around it. No longer defenseless, he scrambled to his feet. The sudden motion triggered a bout of dizziness. He swayed and staggered, fighting to regain his balance.
The stranger’s hand clamped over Dave’s right wrist, twisted his body completely around, and jerked his arm behind him, pulling up so hard Dave thought he’d dislocate his shoulder. He could feel the edge of his own knife pressing against his back. Fearing his attacker wanted to disarm him, Dave clutched the handle, gritting his teeth against the escalating pain in his upper arm and shoulder. But a moment later, his attacker dropped his own knife. Dave fought against the painful grip, shoving his left elbow back, trying to strike an effective blow—but failing miserably.
Dave’s struggles grew feeble as nausea surged and he broke out in a damp sweat. The man’s other hand clamped under the base of Dave’s head and, again, lifted him off his feet.
Only when his attacker slammed him against a wall did Dave notice they had crossed into the living room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the reflected glow of the TV on the street-facing wall, the broadcast voices too faint to discern any meaning. Then the hand that had such a ferocious grip on his wrist edged toward his palm, prying Dave’s fingers open to seize control of the kitchen knife.
Once he had the knife, the man released Dave’s agonized arm, which sagged, trembling, to his side, but he still held Dave pinned against the wall by the one-handed grip at the base of his skull. Dave’s feet dangled inches off the ground.
He hadn’t heard his knife fall.
For a terrified moment, Dave wondered what—
28
Laurie continued to patrol the streets of Haddonfield in her Nissan pickup, gazing left and right while listening to her police scanner. With fewer trick-or-treaters on the sidewalks or crossing the street, a solitary figure would stand out. His coveralls would blend into the shadows, but that mask, that ghoulishly pale mask, would expose him. Each time she saw someone in front of her, crossing the street or walking on the sidewalk, she flicked on the high beams to dispel the darkness and reveal them.
Though she had the Smith & Wesson revolver on the passenger seat, if she spotted him in the road, she would have to resist the urge to run him down with the pickup. After a moment’s consideration, she dismissed the idea. Why suppress that particular urge when Haddonfield had several good auto body shops?
Take him down, she thought, then take him out. A hit and shoot.
Since she’d learned of his escape from the transport bus, the day had acquired the oppressive feeling of a summer storm brewing, as if dark thunderheads had rolled in and it was only a matter of time before the damaging winds, hail, and lightning wreaked havoc on the town. Except this storm felt personal. Everyone else chose to ignore it or hope it went away.
She wouldn’t rely on the police this time. She wouldn’t even rely on her family. She would protect them with or without their help. She had resigned herself to her mission a long time ago. She had never lost the way.
The police scanner squawked, catching her attention.
“Base 100 all units. Intrusion in progress at 385 Meridian Avenue.”
“601 copy,” a familiar voice responded. Hawkins.
“This is it,” Laurie said to herself.
She checked the closest street sign, then pressed the accelerator.
* * *
Officer Frank Hawkins arrived first at 385 Meridian, parked his blue-and-white police cruiser at the curb, and circled to the back of the house, gun drawn, flashlight held beside it. Many of the interior lights burned bright, as if the residents hoped the display would scare away the intruder. As he turned the corner of the house and peered across the backyard, a flutter of movement caught his attention. He froze, gun aimed, finger tensing on the trigger—until his flashlight revealed he’d been about to drill a 9mm hole in a solitary bedsheet flapping in the breeze.
He paused, listening for anything unusual.
Behind the bedsheet and the clothesline, he saw an elaborate wooden playset, an expensive amalgamation of a fort and a jungle gym. No reason for a suburban kid to visit a playground when his own backyard had better equipment. Since the damn thing was big enough to hide a boy scout troop, he made a quick pass around it, checking and clearing any hidden recesses.
Once he came around the far side, he noticed somebody had left the back door open. Stepping through the door into a dark kitchen, he swept the room with his flashlight, finding no one. Silence.
“Warren County Sheriff’s Department,” he called, projecting his voice so anyone in the house would hear him. “Responding to a domestic disturbance!”
Cautiously, he stepped forward.
“I repeat! This is Office Hawkins. Please respond!”
The open door was the first sign at the scene that something was wrong. At this point, he had a tricky situation on his hands. The homeowner might be hiding, too scared to respond and possibly armed, possibly trigger-happy. And an intruder might be present, also hiding, possibly armed. Despite the open back door, he couldn’t assume the perp or the homeowner had fled. An intruder might have left the door open upon entering the residence. When you stacked unknown upon unknown, you increased the odds of somebody getting injured or killed, and that included the homeowner or the cop responding to the call. Hawkins kept his finger beside the trigger guard, rather than on the trigger. Less chance he would flinch and accidentally shoot mom, dad, or the kids.
Once he cleared the kitchen, he walked into the hall between the stairs and the living room. He heard indistinct voices from a television. To his right, he noticed scuffing on the wall beside the staircase, a cracked baluster—fresh damage.
As he climbed the stairs, he kept his feet close to the wall to counter any squeaky treads or risers. At the top of the staircase, he paused by the newel post and stared down the hallway, noticing a glow coming from a dark room at the end. Moving quietly, he approached the room, gun raised, tapping the trigger guard nervously with his index finger.
Pausing before the door, he took a deep breath, then pivoted into the doorway. His flashlight beam first caught the eyes of a small jack-o’-lantern with a candle in it on a toy shelf.
Kid’s room, he thought, judging by the toys and animal wallpaper.
The glow in the room emanated from a large aquarium. But someone had dropped a
large jack-o’-lantern, carved with heart-shaped eyes and a friendly smile, into the fish tank, where it rested between an arch-shaped piece of white coral and a novelty volcano with orange lighting designed to look like an underwater lava eruption.
To the left of the aquarium sat a figure cloaked in a white sheet—taken from the clothesline?—with eye holes cut out to make a simple ghost costume.
Hawkins stepped forward, gun trained on the ghost.
Some kind of prank?
“Joke’s over, pal,” he said. “Remove the sheet—slowly—and keep your hands where I can see them.”
No movement. Not even a nervous twitch.
Hawkins had a bad feeling.
Keeping his gun aimed at the ghost figure, he reached forward with his other hand and carefully pulled away the sheet.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered in horror.
Beneath was a pretty blond teenager in a blood-drenched raglan shirt, dark jeans, and gray socks. No shoes. Possibly lives—lived—here. Another explanation occurred to him. Babysitter. He noted multiple stab wounds. Shoulder wound. Defensive cuts on her forearms. Throat slit open. Didn’t need a coroner’s assessment to know the last one was the cause of death.
Poor girl. Her killer had posed her on the chair, hands on her knees. Then turned her into a gruesome Halloween decoration.
But he’d mourn her loss later.
Her killer might still be inside the house.
* * *
Laurie arrived at the house after Hawkins. At least she assumed the sheriff’s department cruiser at the curb belonged to him. Climbing out of the pickup, her nerves on high alert, Laurie scanned the area, handgun pressed against her thigh.
He could be here. Anywhere.
She peered up and down the block, at the shadows between pools of light cast from street lamps. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed on porches and front steps, candle flames flickering in the breeze, creating a false sense of movement by shifting shadows around them.
POP!
Laurie flinched. Only a firecracker.
Turning toward the sound, she saw the silhouette of a small witch with the traditional pointed hat. The witch lit and tossed more firecrackers—POP! POP!
Halloween Page 17